


The Illusion of Choice

by fuchsiaring



Series: The Final Problem Ficlets [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Introspection, Light Angst, Light/Implied Johnlock, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuchsiaring/pseuds/fuchsiaring
Summary: An idea given to me by WatsonHolmes221B in a comment on my ficlet 'Three Silly Words': "I would love to read a fic from Sherlock's POV when he has to 'choose' between Mycroft and John."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WatsonHolmes221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatsonHolmes221B/gifts).



" _ Tick-tock!  Tickets please! _ ”

Sherlock doesn’t want to be on the train anymore.

He used to like train rides when he was younger: the world flashing by in a blur of green and blue, the rocking and rattling of the tracks.  If he closed his eyes, it would feel like a ship, coasting on choppy waters.

He’s seasick.

The room behind them is filled with splintered wood, rent apart with his bare hands because there had to be a way to take those words back.  He’d give anything to make those words his again, but he can’t, so Sherlock had to take away their place to hide.  They were out there now, floating through the air to ears that weren’t supposed to hear them.  They can’t be buried or hidden away.  Sherlock had made sure of that.

He’s only just caught his breath, but it leaves his chest again as a sister he didn’t know he had gives him an ultimatum he never expected to face.

“It’s make your mind up time.”

The gun in his hand weighs heavy on Sherlock’s mind--heavier there than it is in his palm.  The meters between him and the other two stretches into miles and his head spins.  His mind scrabbles for purchase on a slope made of loose gravel.  It’s slipping, and he’s falling.

On his left, his brother.  On his right, John Watson.  Family, or friend.

He has to look away.

Distantly, he hears Mycroft’s voice.  Sherlock doesn’t hear his words.

His heart pounds, thundering in his ears louder than the echo of Eurus on the video, louder than Mycroft’s voice.  There has to be another way, he won’t play this game.  He’s played along so far.  He chose whose hands to bloody with the Governor.  He chose which Garrideb to condemn.

But he won’t choose this.  He can’t.

But there’s a plane in the sky and it’s not going to land.

“Well?” 

Mycroft is talking to him now, and Sherlock has to talk back.  He has to.  He has to do  _ something  _ because nothing isn’t an option anymore.  They’re trapped in this horrible parody of choice, a life hanging in the balance, one bullet meant for one man and it’s a scale.

Whose help does Sherlock need the most?

That’s what she had said, but she didn’t know what she meant.

Whose help did he need here, now?  In the next room?  In the aftermath?  Who was going to hold him together and keep all the little shattered pieces from crumbling apart?  Who would he lean on when he couldn’t stand anymore, and who would walk into fire and flame to fight this battle and win the war?

Who had doctor’s hands but soldier’s eyes, steady and steely and stronger than anyone knew?

Not whose  _ help  _ did he need.

_ Who _ did he need?

But Mycroft is talking again, and he’s saying words Sherlock doesn’t want to hear.  He doesn’t want to hear that those words make sense, that Mycroft is, in fact, right.

He doesn’t want to  _ know  _ that Mycroft is right.

Sherlock can’t look at John right now.  He can’t.  He hates that John is standing straight with his hands at his sides, ready to stare down the barrel of a gun and die for his country.  He hates that John is ready to do what soldiers do.

Sherlock isn’t a soldier.

John is ready to die for his country, but Sherlock isn’t.  And this will kill him as surely as it will kill John.  A bullet to the head, and one to the heart.  

Only one will be made of lead.

The other will be made of blood and sorrow and things he said to the wrong person.  It will be made of regrets and burning pain that might as well be a bullet for all it will hurt.

Mycroft is talking again, with a voice that stings and words that cut.  They rip into Sherlock’s skin because he’s heard it all before.  He’s said it to himself.

Pathetic.

Idiot.

“Stop it.”

There isn’t enough power in his voice.  It’s weak.  Like him.

If he could only  _ do the right thing _ .  If only he knew what the right thing is.

The words Mycroft says now slice even deeper.  Sherlock will stand before fire and beatings and bullets.  He’ll take all the horrible words in the world unto himself if he must.  They’ll sting and settle deep in him to tear at his insides in the dark of the night when he’s alone.

But he won’t let those words be about John Watson.

Sherlock knows exactly what his brother is doing.  It’s not subtle, it’s not sneaky.  It’s in the open, plain as day, but it burns him all the same.

“You’ll find another.”

No, he won’t.  He never will.

So who does he need?

“Please, for God’s sake, just stop it.”  Sherlock says it, and he means it.  His chest is aching with the sort of pain he can’t escape, even when the words have stopped.  He levels the gun at his brother.  His blood, his family, the man he’s always known.

They used to play together, when he was small.  Sherlock put together those strips of projector tape.  He remembers that day at the beach, putting his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders and smiling up at the camera.

And now it’s come to this.

Sherlock isn’t going to say he’s sorry.  Mycroft will brush it off and act like it doesn’t matter.  He won’t want to hear it.  He’ll act like this is all part of the plan, like he’s known it all along.

Mycroft will act like he’s not afraid.  Sherlock knows that he is.

Sherlock is too.

But then John is trying to stop him, and Mycroft is talking again.  This is his fault, and at first Sherlock thinks he’s talking about keeping Eurus a secret.  That if Sherlock had known, they could have fixed this together.  Like brothers.  Like family.

But then he’s telling the truth for once in his damned life, and Sherlock is furious.  He raises the gun again and he thinks for a moment that Mycroft might deserve it.

Conspicuously insulting John hadn’t made Sherlock want to kill his brother, but this… This changes things.

But then Mycroft is saying goodbye, and nothing has changed at all.  Sherlock will die with him, too.  Just like he would if this gun was leveled at John.

“Jim Moriarty thought you’d make this choice.  He was so excited.”

“ _ And here we are, the end of the line. _ ”

“ _ Holmes killing Holmes. _ ”

Now that’s an idea, isn’t it?

There isn’t an answer here, not really.

Eurus has left him with an illusion of choice.  This isn’t about Mycroft or John.  It isn’t about family or friend.  This is about Sherlock dying, and who he takes down with him.

Well, maybe it doesn’t have to be either.

“Not on my watch.”

The barrel of the gun is icy against his chin, heavy and hard and cold.  Years ago (was it years? It seems like it could have been yesterday), Sherlock watched Jim Moriarty shove the barrel of a gun into his mouth and pull the trigger.  He hadn’t hesitated.

But Sherlock has to.

He starts counting down.

_ Ten _ .

He doesn’t want to die.

_ Nine _ .

Not when he’s just started to live.

_ Eight _ .

He hasn’t had enough time.

_ Seven _ .

He’s only just met John.

_ Six _ .

He never said those things he meant to say.

_ Five _ .  

Something stings the back of his neck.

_ Four _ .

The things he never said can’t be his last words.

_ Three _ .

It was a dart.  Sherlock already feels the tranquilizer.  His head is spinning and his vision is going blurry, his arms are getting heavy.

_ Two _ .

He’s falling, falling down into the depths of an inky darkness.  

He can’t remember if he pulled the trigger.


End file.
